“’Shadows to-night
    Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard,
    Than could the substance of ten thousand * * s,
    Arm’d all in proof, and led by shallow * *.’

I do not like this dream,—­I hate its ‘foregone conclusion.’  And am I to be shaken by shadows?  Ay, when they remind us of—­no matter—­but, if I dream thus again, I will try whether all sleep has the like visions.  Since I rose, I’ve been in considerable bodily pain also; but it is gone, and now, like Lord Ogleby, I am wound up for the day.

“A note from Mountnorris—­I dine with Ward;—­Canning is to be there, Frere and Sharpe,—­perhaps Gifford.  I am to be one of ‘the five’ (or rather six), as Lady * * said a little sneeringly yesterday.  They are all good to meet, particularly Canning, and—­Ward, when he likes.  I wish I may be well enough to listen to these intellectuals.

“No letters to-day;—­so much the better,—­there are no answers.  I must not dream again;—­it spoils even reality.  I will go out of doors, and see what the fog will do for me.  Jackson has been here:  the boxing world much as usual;—­but the club increases.  I shall dine at Crib’s to-morrow.  I like energy—­even animal energy—­of all kinds; and I have need of both mental and corporeal.  I have not dined out, nor, indeed, at all, lately; have heard no music—­have seen nobody.  Now for a plunge—­high life and low life.  ‘Amant alterna Camoenae!’

“I have burnt my Roman—­as I did the first scenes and sketch of my comedy—­and, for aught I see, the pleasure of burning is quite as great as that of printing.  These two last would not have done.  I ran into realities more than ever; and some would have been recognised and others guessed at.

“Redde the Ruminator—­a collection of Essays, by a strange, but able, old man (Sir E.B.), and a half-wild young one, author of a poem on the Highlands, called ‘Childe Alarique.’  The word ‘sensibility’ (always my aversion) occurs a thousand times in these Essays; and, it seems, is to be an excuse for all kinds of discontent.  This young man can know nothing of life; and, if he cherishes the disposition which runs through his papers, will become useless, and, perhaps, not even a poet, after all, which he seems determined to be.  God help him! no one should be a rhymer who could be any thing better.  And this is what annoys one, to see Scott and Moore, and Campbell and Rogers, who might have all been agents and leaders, now mere spectators.  For, though they may have other ostensible avocations, these last are reduced to a secondary consideration. * *, too, frittering away his time among dowagers and unmarried girls.  If it advanced any serious affair, it were some excuse; but, with the unmarried, that is a hazardous speculation, and tiresome enough, too; and, with the veterans, it is not much worth trying, unless, perhaps, one in a thousand.